


she's the tear in my heart

by mckayla (steveromanov)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Author shamelessly posting a Christmas fic on Jan 1st, F/M, Fight me who doesn't love a Christmas fic anyway, Heated Kissing, Implied Sexual Content, Mistletoe, apparently i love to torture Bucky with Steve's sex life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 02:52:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5611123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steveromanov/pseuds/mckayla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The luxuriousness of his past six Christmases hasn’t bothered him; he’s grateful for Tony’s hospitality, for his friends’ company and love during the season where he typically got more melancholic and wistful than usual, where he wished he still had Bucky at his side. He doesn’t have to <i>wish</i> anymore, though, and that’s what’s so overwhelming about this Christmas. It’s like his worlds, old and new, are mending together, and Steve doesn’t know what to do with the rush of feeling that overcomes him as he observes his friends talk and laugh amongst a heap of torn wrapping paper and freshly opened gifts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	she's the tear in my heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AJ_Lenoire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJ_Lenoire/gifts).



> Hi! Have an overdue Christmas fic because I was super busy during the actual week of Christmas with the holidays, birthdays, and the unsuspected arrival of family from out of town and didn't get a chance to really work on any WIPs. So, here's the second place winner of my Steve/Nat Christmas Giveaway on January 1st. This one goes to **AJ_Lenoire**! Sorry, I know you probably meant for me to include the whole gang plus but this kind of... got away from me. Still, I hope you enjoy it!

It’s been six years since he’s woken up from the ice. Six years of learning and readjusting, making friends and losing friends, trying to find his place in this new (to him) world. Six years of _fighting_. On the other hand, it’s also been six Christmases since he’s woken up from the ice. Six _extravagant_ Christmases at that, because Steve doesn’t much like to spend the holidays alone, and if he isn’t working around that time he usually spends Christmas at Avengers Tower—and he never expects anything short of lavish when it comes to Tony. All of the other Avengers spend it at the Tower, in fact, and it sort of becomes an unspoken and accidental tradition between them. Nothing sacred—sometimes they’re busy, sometimes they’re sent out on missions or are stranded in Tennessee, as Tony likes to remind them—but when they’re free, they flock here come Christmas Eve.

It’s only been ten months since Bucky’s recovery. Ten months since he showed up on Steve’s doorstep in the middle of the night, rainwater dripping off the ends of his long hair and down his even longer coat, mumbling memories that were hazy and broken to him but bright and fresh to Steve. Ten months of more learning and readjusting, helping Bucky make friends— _the team_ —and find his place in this world. And now, it’s Steve’s first Christmas with his best friend since 1944, Bucky’s first Christmas with _all_ of them. For a moment, as Steve watches Bucky laugh and joke with Clint and Thor, a sweating beer in his hand, he’s reminded of how his holidays used to go before the war: just him and Bucky in their cold, rickety apartment, knocking back beers and recalling all their fond memories of the year over meatloaf and boiled cabbage, which was all they really could afford at the time. The moment is brief. Because while they’d had to carefully split their food and skip on a tree and decorations and—if they were _really_ pressed for money—even gifts back then, now is definitely… different. So different that the change is leaving Steve more than a bit overwhelmed.

The tower is covered head-to-toe in Christmas décor, every floor themed in some sort of way, but the recreational floor is by far the most heavily decorated, with a tall, lush tree standing proud in the center of the room, flanked on either side by Tony’s rearranged sofas and with a heap of presents spilling out from beneath it. Just a half an hour before him and the others had gathered at a long table and enjoyed a full course meal, completed with a beautifully roasted prime rib and _more_ than enough sides and even a few different varieties of cakes and pies, to boot. Now, Steve has long gotten used to Tony’s generosity and affinity for going all out. The luxuriousness of his past six Christmases hasn’t bothered him; he’s grateful for Tony’s hospitality, for his friends’ company and love during the season where he typically got more melancholic and wistful than usual, where he wished he still had Bucky at his side. He doesn’t have to _wish_ anymore, though, and that’s what’s so overwhelming about this Christmas. It’s like his worlds, old and new, are mending together, and Steve doesn’t know what to do with the rush of feeling that overcomes him as he observes his friends talk and laugh amongst a heap of torn wrapping paper and freshly opened gifts.

He slinks off towards the elevators once he’s sure no one’s paying him any mind, thinking that it’ll be easier to process everything that’s going on in the silence of his own quarters. He casts one last smile to his unsuspecting friends, the warmth in his chest expanding as he notices Bucky and Tony joke around despite their past issues, and retreats into the hallway without any of the others noticing. At least, he _thinks_ nobody notices. There’s a knock on his door five minutes after he’s fallen back on his bed on top of the covers, staring up at the ceiling and trying to figure out how to start convincing himself that _yes, this is really happening, Bucky isn’t dead, and these past ten months haven’t all just been some cruel dream._

He debates ignoring it. It’s probably just a drunken Tony trying to drag him back down to the party, and if that’s the case, then Steve certainly hasn’t learned anything about inconspicuousness despite the past six years. But then—“Captain, Agent Romanoff is requesting entrance to your quarters. Shall I inform her that you do not wish to be disturbed?”

Steve finds himself sitting up before he even has much chance to think against it. “That’s okay, Jarvis. I’ll answer the door myself.”

“Very well, sir.”

For a brief second, Steve fusses over his appearance, hesitating between fastening those few buttons on his shirt again and glancing at the mirror in passing to check his hair on his way to the door, but then he realizes that he’s only being ridiculous. Natasha’s hardly the first person to judge someone’s appearance, despite her knack for harmless teasing. And besides, he’s never cared about what he’s looked like all the other times she’s randomly dropped by his apartment in Brooklyn (hell, once he’d answered the door in nothing but a T-shirt and boxers, but then again it was probably too early in the morning for him to even _think_ about being shy). Maybe it’s different tonight because of how everything else is different, too. Or maybe it’s because Natasha looks very nice this evening, donned in a pretty burgundy dress, her hair neatly styled. No. It’s probably because these last few months the two of them have been caught in something halfway between _innocent flirting_ and _dating_ , and now he’s irrationally afraid that a few askew buttons will turn her off. Peggy had been more than accurate when she’d told him he knew nothing about women, after all. They’re a subject Steve will never be completely educated on, especially with Natasha. But the fact that she always keeps him guessing may be what attracts him to her just so.

When he opens the door Natasha’s regarding him with a raised eyebrow, her heels dangling by the straps from her finger on one hand and a small, neatly wrapped box grasped in the other. “My feet are killing me,” she says by way of greeting.

Steve moves aside to let her in, and despite all of the feelings running around in his head, he can’t help but smirk at her comment. “What stopped you from wearing sneakers tonight?”

“Are you kidding?” She doesn’t look at him over her shoulder, but he can see her disbelieving look all the same. “Have you never heard the phrase, ‘beauty is pain’?”

He bites back the urge to say something corny, something along the lines of _you must be in pain all the time, then_ , even though he sort of loves seeing her roll her eyes at him because he knows that she’s amused by his cheesiness all the same. Instead, he asks, “Why are you here? Is everything alright?”

“I should be asking you the same thing,” she replies, turning around once she drops her heels down beside the couch. “But I won’t—not unless you want to tell me, that is.” At this, she offers the present out to him. “Merry Christmas, Steve.”

She patiently waits with a slightly amused expression on her face as he blinks at her for a moment. Amidst all of the conversation and good cheer and all of the other gifts he’d received, he hadn’t actually noticed that Natasha hadn’t given him her present yet. He holds up a finger and says, “Wait one moment. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you—?” She starts to ask, but when he darts down the hallway and starts rummaging around his bedroom, she seems to realize what he’s after. “Wait a second. You didn’t get me another gift, did you? Because what I got for you certainly doesn’t even _start_ to own up to the drawing you did for me, and if this second gift is anything of the same caliber then I’m completely giving up.”

Steve laughs as he comes back, the present that he’d himself forgotten to bring down for her in his hands. He’d initially planned on _just_ giving her the picture of a ballerina he’d drawn, but after more than a few paranoid (and, as it turned out, silly) thoughts about how she might not like it, he’d gotten her a second present, just in case. “Don’t be absurd,” he tells her. “I’ll love whatever you got me, I’m sure.”

“Flatterer,” she smirks as they swap presents. “Seriously, though. If you don’t like it, don’t try to lie to me. First of all, I’ll be able to tell. Second of all, I can always just go back and get what I was originally going to get you, so—”

Steve doesn’t hear the rest of what Natasha says—or maybe she just doesn’t get to finish, because when he unwraps the present and removes the lid from the small box and gets a good look inside, all he really has the sense to do is envelope her in a tight hug that most likely makes it difficult for her to breathe, let alone form words. Steve loosens his hold on her once that thought really sinks in, but he still can’t help but beam at the gift in his hands once he pulls back. Natasha coughs, clearly and uncharacteristically embarrassed, though Steve can’t even begin to fathom why.

“If you don’t like it, I can exchange it for something else,” she repeats.

“Nat, stop. I love it. It’s…” Steve can’t take his eyes off the gift, resting against the box’s velvet interior. The watch is gunmetal grey, which he finds sort of fitting considering who this present is from, the face a dark, navy blue and elegantly yet modernly designed. For a moment he watches the arms tick softly along, a wide smile on his face. “It’s really great,” he finally finishes. “And, Jesus, it also must’ve been really expensive.”

“No, I’ll have none of that,” she shakes her head at him but the smile she wears is soft, pleased. And maybe even a bit proud, if not flustered. “I’m really glad you like it, though. What’re you waiting for? Put it on.”

He does just that, his smile going even broader and brighter to the point that he’s sure his cheeks would have started hurting if that sort of thing even affected him anymore. He clasps the watch around his wrist and stares at it for a few more moments—he’s never received anything this _nice_ from anyone before, at least not from someone who doesn’t have the seemingly endless resources to buy seriously expensive presents, like Tony. Not that he doesn’t appreciate Tony’s gifts, but this sort of thoughtfulness is different coming from Natasha, and he resists the urge to hug her again.

“Okay, now it’s your turn.” He nods at the still-wrapped present in her hands.

She tears off the paper with skilled and precise movements, but Steve’s only paying attention to the expression on her face once the paper falls to the floor and she stares down at the collection of tin cans in front of her. He knows she has an unbridled love for tea, and when he’d been thinking of a back-up present to give her he recalled her telling him once that she missed the tea she used to drink in Russia. She couldn’t find the same type of stuff in the states, not off the shelf. So, with a little help from Jarvis (because where Tony’s full of questions, the AI isn’t), Steve managed to order a set of teas imported straight from Russia just in time for the holidays. And, well—the look on Natasha’s face is fully worth it.

For a moment she just stares down at the teas, just like he had done with the watch. Her face is largely impassive, but the slight crinkle between her eyebrows tells him all he needs to know. She loves the gift, and she’s trying very hard not to show how much. Steve doesn’t take offense from it. He’s gotten long used to the fact that Natasha hiding her real feelings is just some deep-rooted habit, training that she’ll never be able to fully shake off. Instead, he grins as she finally lifts her head and searches his eyes.

“This is the exact same brand we had in the orphanage,” she says quietly, and he doesn’t miss how she almost cuts off her sentence before the last word. “How’d you know?”

He chuckles quietly, ducking his head as he feels his cheeks warm. “Well, uh, I didn’t,” he admits. “Jarvis assembled a list of popular brands and I just chose. But it looks like it worked out.”

She makes a small sound of approval, eyes falling back down to the containers in her hands. She trails her fingers over the face of one of them, the corner of her mouth twitching in a small smile, before she looks up at him again. “Thank you, Steve. Honestly. This… this is the best present I’ve received in a long time.” He blushes again, and she smirks. “And now I’ve been put to shame, so thanks for that, too.”

“Are you joking? This is the best present _I’ve_ received in a long time,” he tells her, lifting the watch beside his head and pointing at it with a finger on his opposite hand. “I’ve never been given anything this nice before. Well, Tony got me that tablet a few years back, but even now I still have trouble operating it from time to time. There’s just a lot of… _options_.”

Natasha laughs, shaking her head at him. “I’ll help you figure it out sometime,” she says.

“That a promise?”

Her eyes are dancing with something that makes his stomach flutter. “Maybe.”

Steve smirks. _Innocent flirting and…_ “Well, for now, how about we uphold tradition?” At the confused look on her face, he points up at the sprout of mistletoe hanging above them, fastened to the archway into the living room. He’d noticed the mistletoe when he arrived at the Tower the day before, shaking his head fondly at the realization that this sprig was most likely going to be one of fifty that Tony had hung around his guest floor, let alone the entire tower. He just hadn’t expected to actually be making sure of it.

Natasha shakes her head. “Now, that’s just cheesy,” she says, but she’s winding her arms around his neck as she does, so he just gives a slight shrug before bending his head down and pressing their lips together. And that’s all it really is—a press of lips on lips, and Steve is prepared to leave it at just that, because he may be known for his bravery, but not for his forwardness. So he starts to pull away.

Or he tries. Because Natasha’s eyebrows furrow together and she makes a sound of protest, locking her hands firmly behind his neck so all he can do is oblige and lean back down to kiss her again. He tries to just keep it chaste, unsure if what he _wants_ to do is also what she wants, but then she’s licking at the seam of his lips in an obvious signal to part them and, well. She clearly wants, too.

Steve wraps his arms around her waist and lifts her a bit off the floor so he doesn’t have to bend so much without really thinking about it, and when he moves to put her back down, Natasha shakes her head and kisses him harder, her tongue moving against his and her fingers sliding up his neck and into the short strands of his hair. It’s not until she lets out a small grunt that he realizes he’s backed her up against the wall, his knee wedged between hers to keep her level. She groans as she grinds down against his thigh, and all of Steve’s uncertainty is abandoned right then and there as a shiver runs down his back and his grip tightens on her hips. And when Natasha wraps her legs around his waist, he finds that carrying her back to his bedroom and showing her just _how much_ he loves her present sounds way more appealing than going back downstairs to rejoin the party.

* * *

Steve wakes to the feel of fine hair tickling his face, and for a moment he’s disorientated, unable to recall how he’s gotten into this situation. But then he sees the vibrant hue of red hair tucked into his neck, and the mistletoe, the feel of Natasha’s lips, the sound that tumbles past her lips when she’s in pleasure and the face she makes when she comes floods back into his memory and he smiles, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She stirs in protest for the briefest of moments before he feels her eyes blinking against his chest, and she lifts her head up to give him a sleepy smile.

“Hello,” she murmurs.

“‘Morning,” he answers back, running his knuckles along her jawline. She nuzzles against his hand, sighing contently as her eyelids flutter shut again. He takes a moment to observe her, then. She looks so natural, maybe even a little vulnerable, with her eyelashes long and dark against the curves of her cheekbones. Just as beautiful as ever. What had she said the night before, “beauty is pain”? Steve doesn’t think there’s much truth to that statement whatsoever. In fact, he thinks that beauty comes pretty effortless to her. She might not even realize it. But she’s surely beautiful now, her makeup faded and hair mussed. And she was beautiful last night, back bowed and sheets bunched in her hands as she met her climax before his very eyes and beneath his very touch.

“Someone’s certainly awake,” she suddenly says, voice thick with amusement. Her thigh is pressed against his now-obvious erection, and he can’t fight the flush that colors his cheeks at the realization. He opens his mouth to say something, but what comes out is—

“Hey, Steve, Jarvis just informed me that Stark’s got a full breakfast spread lined up in the communal kitchen and you know Thor can plow through all of that by himself, so chop, ch—holy hell! Christ, when the hell did this happen? And will one of you please pull up the covers?”

 _Bucky_. How could he forget that he was sharing the floor with Bucky? And that he had a habit of _not knocking?_ Steve flushes as he notices that the blankets are only just barely hiding his and Natasha’s nether areas from plain sight, and the way her naked chest slides down his body as he reaches for the covers does _nothing_ to help his dwindling hard-on. To top it all off, she looks nothing near as mortified as Steve feels, and the smirk on her face is amused as much as it is smug.

“God, forget it, I’m heading down to the kitchen myself,” Bucky shakes his head. He’s completely turned around so that he’s basically talking to the wall, and Steve sees that that only makes Natasha smirk even wider. “Do whatever it is you gotta do. Hell, this is definitely not how I remember our old Christmases goin’, Steve.”

“Way I hear it, it was usually the other way around,” Natasha calls, and Bucky throws his hands up in defeat as he paces down the hallway. Only when they hear the door close behind him does Natasha actually dissolve into a fit of laughter.

“It’s not funny!” Steve hisses, his face hot. Natasha just laughs harder, burying her face into his chest. He can feel the wetness of her eyelashes against his skin, her shoulder blades trembling beneath his palm. And despite himself, a chuckle escapes his lips. And another. And another, and then he’s laughing just as hard as the woman in his arms, a hand covering his face. “Fine,” he gasps once they’ve started to calm back down, “It’s a _little_ funny.”

“Try a lot,” she replies, wiping at her eyes. “But oh, god, we’re never going to hear the end of it at breakfast.”

“Probably,” he sighs, idly tracing his fingers along her spine. Then a grin spreads across his face, and Natasha lifts an eyebrow in expectance. “But I’m pretty sure we can find some way to… _delay_ the ribbing.”

“Innuendoes—not your strong suit. Corniness, on the other hand…” He laughs as she trails off, but quiets once she trails her fingertips down his chest and abdomen, disappearing beneath the blanket. “Still. I guess I can’t find it in me to turn down your suggestion, however terribly worded it was.”

This time when he laughs, it turns into a loud groan when Natasha wraps her hand around him.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are appreciated! Thanks for reading <3 If you're following Like Rabbits, I promise the next update is coming soon! AH I'M A TERRIBLE AUTHOR AND SHOULDN'T BE ALLOWED TO START MULTI-CHAPS


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